


Save Me from the Devil

by WhenSarahSmiles



Category: DCU, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arkham Asylum, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Flirty Victor Zsasz, Fluff and Angst, Jerome Keeps His Real Face, Jerome Valeska Lives, Jerome is a Sadistic Bastard, Pet Names, Pining, Protective Victor Zsasz, Reader-Insert, Sexual Tension, Slow Romance, The Iceberg Lounge, Theo Galavan Never Happened, Will Update Tags When I Think of Better Ones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-01-02 10:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21160490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenSarahSmiles/pseuds/WhenSarahSmiles
Summary: A murderer disguised as a gentleman and a madman with a lust for destruction.You finally understood why your father had always said'no boys allowed'.





	1. A Very Happy Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After sticking the feelers out on my Tumblr (MakeThisCanon.tumblr.com), I decided to write a Victor x Reader x Jerome fic. I've read a few on here but they all end with death and sadness, so I thought I'd write one for you with a guaranteed happy ending -- just expect a lot of sadness and angst on the way~

* * *

* * *

“Umm… tell me again how we know Mister Falcone?”

You had your hands behind your head, glancing nervously at your father as an armed-guard patted you down for weapons. Oh, the irony. Your father gave a cheery smile, like a stranger wasn’t currently heavy-petting his inner thighs in the small entrance hall of the Falcone Mansion.

“We go back years. He helped me get my first job back when I was your age.”

When your father caught you landing him with a suspicious eye he felt compelled to add, “Don’t let the security worry you. He loves a good party but he’s always been on the cautious side.”

You squeaked when a hand wandered up the hem of your cocktail dress. You glared at the guard but they ignored you, more intent on doing a good job than worrying about the colour of your lace panties.

This all seemed rather odd. Your father was a kind and compassionate man, so naturally you assumed the people he spent his time with were the same. Gun-wielding, scar-wearing bodyguards never came into the equation.

“Clear,” said the guard after a final pat down.

“Clear,” came the voice of the second guard patting your father down. The two stepped back then you and your father were ushered through to the grand foyer where many other guests had started to mingle. You looked around in awe, taking in the splendour of the building. You reckoned one oil painting off the wall was worth more than all of your belongings back at Arkham put together.

“Why have you never mentioned him before?”

If your father and Mister Falcone were friends, you felt robbed of many years of expensive gifts – or at the very least, a pony for your eighteenth.

“We lost touch,” your father admitted, guiding you through the crowd of well-dressed and elegantly poised party goers. They made you feel out of place.

Cocktail dresses and stilettos weren’t your thing. Put you in flats, or better yet slippers and sweatpants, and you could call it a good night. The heels your father had asked you to wear were already rubbing. It was all you could do to cling to his arm and hope you didn’t stumble. You weren’t meant for glamour. You weren’t rich or famous, nor did you have any high standings in society.

Your father was the head warden at Arkham Asylum and you lived with him in the Warden’s Quarters, keeping yourselves to yourselves with a relatively humble lifestyle. That’s why, when your father had invited you to “a friend’s sixtieth”, you had expected a back garden barbeque with a few balloons. It baffled you that your father had managed to keep such a stinking rich friend hidden from you for almost two decades.

Considering how many people were at the event, it didn’t take you long to meet the man of the hour. You were barely two steps into the great hall before a proud-looking man clasped your father’s hand in greeting then pulled him into a hug.

“It’s been too long,” he announced warmly. The man was small, and balding, but exuded a confidence that came hand in hand with great power. It made you wonder who Falcone was. You had not heard him mentioned before today.

As he and your father embraced like brothers you couldn’t help but notice the crisp-suited guards glancing between themselves to make sure this interaction was allowed. It seemed you weren’t the only one who thought their friendship was odd. Then again, you couldn’t blame the security for being wary. Even in a suit, your father had a natural scruffiness about him that looked completely out of place in a high-class setting.

When they pulled apart, your father introduced you.

“This is my daughter,” he said, and you noted the hint of pride in his voice. Falcone turned to you and in the moment that he gazed over you, you noted how kind his eyes were, and how genuine his smile was. He took your hand and raised it to his lips, kissing your knuckles.

“I only wish we had been introduced sooner. You look so very much like your mother, and I can tell you have become a strong young woman in your own right.”

His words made you warm. There were very few who knew of your mother. She died of pneumonia when you were small and your father very rarely spoke of her, finding it too hard to broach the subject with you.

“Thank you,” you said honestly. Looking at the man you found it a little easier to believe that he and your father were friends. They both wore kindness like a well-fitted suit and you could tell Falcone’s richness and power had not jumped to his head.

You exchanged a few more pleasantries with the man of the hour, then when he said he needed to make a few more rounds you wished him good bye and he promised to speak to your father ‘about that’ soon.

You watched the man walk away with a smile and then eyed your father.

“About what?” You asked before he had chance to divert the topic. Waving his hand to brush you off, he smiled and chuckled, and told you not to worry.

“We just need to catch up on a few things.”

You lingered on your father for a moment more, hoping he would elaborate, but when he didn’t you sighed and took his arm, needing the support now that your heels felt rubbed raw. It was official. You just weren’t meant to be classy.

oOo

Falcone returned an hour or so later, once the party was in full swing, and asked if your father could speak to him in private. You hoped to join them, eager not to be left alone in a sea of upper-class snobs, but your father said he wouldn’t be long and brought you a drink to keep you company.

Although you felt a bit putout, you had to admit you felt better with a drink in your hand. You were most definitely a wallflower, sticking to the edges of the commotion when you were by yourself, so having something to hold made you feel less awkward. It didn’t hurt that it was alcoholic. Nothing like ethanol to help calm your nerves.

Being alone, you decided to explore. There was time to kill and you wanted to find out about Mister Falcone. You wanted to know who he really was to your father. You knew lots of your father’s friends because he liked to talk about them. You knew all sorts of whacky and wonderful tales about your father’s companions, so it struck you as odd that you had never once heard Falcone come up in conversation.

You had limited room to explore with Falcone’s guards patrolling the mansion but that didn’t concern you. This wasn’t a full-scale investigation. It was your blatant curiosity and nothing more.

You shuffled along the outskirts of the great hall, looking for clues, but found your attention preoccupied by the other guests. They looked fresh off the red carpet – or the women did, at least. Most of the men were fat or balding, with too many rings on their pudgy fingers. But their wives or partners were dainty wisps, poured into their expensive gowns with clutches that cost more than you dared to imagine. These people had not been patted down on entry, but welcomed by security with a bow.

You tutted. You knew you were common but you didn’t like how the security team thought so too.

After a quick snoop, your ankles warned you to stand still. The backs of your new stilettos were rubbing something chronic and you had to perch with one hand on a pillar to give your feet a rest.

Your comfy shoes were calling to you from back at Arkham. Stupid heels. Stupid blisters. You necked the contents of your champagne flute then went for the buffet, opting to rest closer to the food and an unguarded prosecco tower.

You swiped the top-most drink on arrival, abandoning your empty champagne flute in the process, then glanced over the food. You had no idea what half of it was. There were hunks of meat and cracked nuts, pureed veg and dozens of varieties of pastries with undisclosed fillings, and none of them bigger than a single bite. You wondered if this was how the men had managed to keep their women slim.

You popped a pâté-smeared cracker into your mouth experimentally. After biting down, you regretted it. You knew it was improper to spit food out but swallowing took all of your willpower and the entire glass of the prosecco. It felt like slime dripping down the back of your throat and honestly you were just proud you didn’t wretch.

Glancing up and down the buffet, you looked for something to take the taste away. You spotted a single miniature pizza on a silver tray and decided it would have to do. But as your fingers brushed the plate another hand reached over yours.

“Oh,” you muttered, surprised you had not noticed someone next to you. What surprised you more was that it was one of the bodyguards. He was pale and bald and was dressed in a black designer suit. When you looked at him, he looked back with an amused glint in his dark eyes.

“Thanks,” he said, swiping the pizza out of your reach. You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him you needed that more than he did, but you caught sight of the twin holsters strapped to his sides and stopped yourself. Your father and the Arkham guards carried guns when on duty but only used them as a last resort.

Something told you this man didn’t look for an excuse to start shooting.

Catching you looking at his weapons, the man cocked a hairless eyebrow.

“See something you like, kitten?”

Despite the blush that broke onto your face you kept yourself composed.

“No,” you said hotly, turning your head away. Without your knowledge, he used the moment to look you up and down, his eyes pausing at the hint of cleavage spilling from your dress, then at the way you stood with one heel off the ground to keep the pressure off it.

“You don’t do this often, huh?” He surmised, spotting the patch of rubbed skin on the back of your ankle. You looked back at him, annoyed that even he thought you were out of your sophisticated depths.

“I’ll have you know my onesies at home are encrusted with diamonds.”

He blinked once. It was slow and deliberate, like he was taking the time to understand what you had just said. Then he smiled, catching the joke.

“Smart mouth for a little girl.”

He popped the pizza between his lips then picked up a serviette, wiping the residue off his fingers. As he did so, you couldn’t help but smirk at his attitude. Give or take, he was about ten years older than you. Sure, there was an age gap, but you knew he wasn’t calling you little girl because he meant it. He was one of those guys who just loved being in control.

“You’re quite the pervert, aren’t you?” You asked, too quietly for anyone else to hear. If he was taken aback by your words, he didn’t show it. He cleared his throat, giving the room at large a quick glance before turning his whole attention on you.

“Careful, kitten. You don’t know who you’re playing with.”

The expression on his face made you swallow thickly. You weren’t sure what his intentions were, but he had you wanting to find out.

Having his attention was far better than enduring the derisive stares of the other party-goers. He seemed a good combination of tall, dark-eyed and handsome, and you wanted to spend a little more time with him before your father came back. You liked how he looked at you, like you were someone different – someone who could help him pass the time tonight.

To your shock, he knelt down on one knee.

“Foot.” He said, and it took you a second to realise he was giving you a command. Any common sense would have told you to leave your foot where it was, instead of stretching one leg out for a total stranger to hold, but the careful concentration on his features as he waited for you to do as you were told was hypnotising.

You lifted your foot towards him, unable to take your eyes off his expression. He gently gripped the back of your leg, easing your foot to rest on the end of his knee, then unclasped the buckle of your stiletto. You felt the hairs on your arms prickle at the intimacy of it. Just who was this man? How had he gotten under your skin so quickly? He lifted your foot, easing the shoe past your toes, then placed it beside him and lowered your naked foot to the floor.

He waited. Your heart gave a giddy wobble, knowing he expected you to surrender your other foot without being asked. He did not look up at you. He did not need to. He waited patiently for you to lift your leg, knowing you would do what he wanted.

You looked around, feeling shy. You expected all eyes to be on you and this bizarre scene you were caught up in. There were a few sparse glances from the odd onlookers but to the majority of the room you two were invisible.

“Um…” You started, giving the man your other foot. “Who are you?”

Like Falcone, this man exuded confidence – though he was more reserved, like he didn’t need to make a show of his power. It was just _there_. Plain and obvious to see in the way he held himself, and the precision and control of his movements.

Finally, he chose to look up at you. He unclasped your shoe and eased it off your foot without taking his gaze off your face. His eyes were dark and mischievous, and promised a whole lot of trouble should you get involved with him.

“My name,” he said, slipping your foot back to the floor with the aura of a gentleman setting down fine china, “Is Victor Zsasz.”

The fact he gave you his name so readily sent a shiver up your spine. You went to give him yours, but he picked himself off the ground before you could get the words out. He made a show of straightening his tie then asked with a deceitfully boyish grin,

“Better?”

You made a small ‘_huh_’ sound, barely able to keep up with his shift in attitude. Your brain felt jarred, like it couldn’t process things at normal speeds with Victor in your sights. He seemed amused by this fact, too. He cocked an eyebrow, glancing at your bare feet.

“Yes,” you huffed, managing to get a hold of your senses. “But I could have done that myself.”

“I liked my way better.”

Secretly _you_ liked his way better too, but you weren’t about to tell him that. You dared to look at him longer. He was handsome. There was no denying that. He was a head taller than you with a strong, defined jaw and those eyes that were both playful and concentrating. Honestly, you wouldn’t mind your father rekindling his friendship with Falcone if Victor was part of the deal. He caught your attention in a way no one else in the room could. There was something about him – something _different_.

You didn’t know how right you were, or how quickly you would find out what that something different was.

Nearly as faint as a whisper, you heard someone murmur your name from behind you. You turned around, shocked to see a small man who looked even more out of place here than you did.

“Sorry, do I know you?” You asked politely. The man nodded. He had a plump face that looked almost swollen with haywire hair and a smile that reminded you of a rodent. His suit did not fit, bunched at almost every seam, but he looked completely delighted to see you.

“Are you perhaps the Warden’s daughter?”

You nodded slowly.

“If you want my father, he’s busy at the moment. But you can give me a message, or I’m sure he’ll be back soon?”

“No, no,” the small man muttered, twitching as he extended a hand towards you. “You are fine.”

His nails were long and dirty, and his knuckles were scarred from what looked like years of hard work. It put you off wanting to touch him, but if he knew your father then you supposed you couldn’t be rude. You took his hand in polite greeting, only you felt him tug you closer.

A bang sounded right next to your ear. The noise nearly split your eardrum, filling your whole head with white light for just a second, shutting off all five of your senses. When it cleared the man still had hold of you but his grip had slackened and his pull had stopped. It took a few more moments for your eyesight to focus and even then the ringing in your ears remained. The first thing you saw was a bullet hole straight through the man’s head. It was precisely between his eyes but had shot some of the surrounding skin and skull away on impact.

You looked on in horror, telling yourself to shut your eyes as your brain seared the image of his mutilation into your memories.

Then you screamed. Unbeknownst to you, it fell deaf amongst the choruses of shrieks and yells from the other party-goers. You turned and caught sight of Victor. You saw his gun raised with smoke billowing from the tip. You saw his eyes. Dear God, you saw them. There was not a trace of sanity left. They were unblinking. They were cold. They belonged to the devil.

You heard his warning.

‘_You don’t know who you’re playing with._’

A new kind of fear struck you. You tried to run but Victor reached out with his free hand, gripping you tightly around the wrist. In one movement he pulled you against his chest then clapped his hand to your ear, squeezing your head between his collarbones. You were frightened. You didn’t want him anywhere near you. Friend or foe, you weren’t sure. He had shot the man so suddenly and without warning that you couldn’t tell if he was a bodyguard or a lunatic gunman.

You had no time to fight against him before he fired another shot, then another. You flinched. The sounds of the bangs won out over the ringing in your head, but Victor kept his hand firmly in place to soften the impact on your ears. You stayed still against him, too terrified to move. It was hard to see what was happening, squashed against his chest. The few people in your line of sight were screaming and backing away. You were so frightened you were close to choking.

Then, in an instant, Victor let you go. He opened his arms wide and stepped back. You saw him smiling just like before, with that merry twinkle in his eyes.

He really was the devil.

The ringing left your ears just as Victor raised an eyebrow and span on his heel, holding his thumbs into the elastic of his slacks. Falcone was on his way over and your father, white as a ghost with his eyes locked on you, followed closely behind. Falcone no longer looked like the kind grandfather you had met earlier tonight. His eyes were hard and his jaw set. You noticed that even Victor took one wary step back as he approached.

“Did you really have to do that in here, Zsasz?” Falcone berated, pointing behind you to what was most definitely the dead man with multiple bullet wounds in his head. “Couldn’t you have taken them outside? My guests are in a state.”

“Sir,” Victor countered calmly, glancing back at you only once. The madness behind his eyes was gone. You saw it in an instant. “It needed very… _immediate_ attention.”

You furrowed your brows, trying to make sense of what that meant while battling a state of shock. Behind you, where you did not dare look, there was a dead man who had just been a living man. A living man who had just been speaking to you. Who was dead. Gone. No more.

Luckily, your father was there to grab you when the shock overtook you. The ringing filled your ears once more but this time it was not because of a gunshot. Your head couldn’t process what had just happened. You had a quiet life with your father. He surrounded himself with good people. He had kind friends.

As you collapsed, you finally understood why your father had never, ever mentioned Don Carmine Falcone to you before.

If Victor was the devil, Falcone was the apocalypse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my first attempt in the Gotham fandom. Absolutely love the show so I thought I'd give it my best shot. Let me know what you think. Either kudos or comment -- I always love hearing from you.
> 
> I'm expecting to write about 20-30 chapters, so you're in the for the long haul. Sit back, stick me in your subscriptions, and watch as the madness unfolds~!
> 
> (P.s. Thank you to my Tumblr followers who got back to me on the petnames post. I've taken everything in to consideration, don't you worry~)


	2. Alone

On the night of Falcone’s sixtieth birthday, your father took you home in a state of rage you had never seen him in before. It had been a night for a lot of firsts: your first time meeting Falcone. Your first time having the shoes charmed off you by a stranger. Your first time seeing a dead body—not to mention that it was cold-blooded murder. And finally, your father was in such a fit of rage that you thought he might crash the car.

Had you not been in a daze from the night’s events, you might have realised your father was angry because he had taken you, his only daughter, into a lion’s den. He had hoped that for just once, on a joyous birthday, that Falcone would not allow bloodshed on his premises. Let alone _right next to you_.

“That’s the last time I ever pay him a visit.” Your father assured you, pulling into Arkham’s staff parking lot. He shut the engine off but gripped the steering wheel a while longer, breathing deep to calm down.

Seeing your father in such a state made your mind work in overtime to bring you round, pulling you out of the memories of violence. You leaned over and placed a gentle hand on his, giving it a squeeze.

“It’s okay, Dad. I’m okay.”

You knew you weren’t, but for the sake of stopping your father worrying you would tell him otherwise. He sighed, like letting the air out of an over-stretched balloon. He pried his hand off the wheel so that he could rest it on top of yours on top of his.

“Sorry, pumpkin. I shouldn’t have put you in that situation.”

Be that as it may, you had still enjoyed the night up until that point, in a weird sort of way.

“I had fun.”

Your father furrowed his brows. You added sheepishly, “Well, you know. Up until the murder."

Once your father was suitably settled, the two of you made your way to the Warden’s Quarters through the dark. It was a cold night with no clouds to block the stars. The hairs prickled along your arms, not dissimilar to when Victor Zsasz had helped you out of your shoes.

Ugh. You didn’t need to think of him now. It was horrifying how easily a monster like that had hidden himself under the guise of a charmer. And you had fallen for it, hook line and sinker. You groaned dejectedly, then swore under your breath when your father looked at you.

“Are you alright?”

Concern marred his features. Your father didn’t need to know anything about your interaction with Victor. It would probably rile him up again. The idea of Victor putting his hands on your bare legs and feet was enough to warrant the shotgun, in your father’s eyes. You had had your fill of guns for this evening.

“Nothing,” you reassured him. “Just my ankles. I should have took my shoes off sooner.” In all the commotion you had not bothered to stick yourself back in the pain-machines most women called stilettos. Even now, you dangled them from one hand, semi-debating throwing them into the sparse, unkempt shrubbery along Arkham’s outer wall.

The Warden’s Quarters was a sight for sore eyes when you arrived. It was a standalone building five minutes from the rest of the asylum with its own heavy-duty, iron-clad outer walls. It was difficult to call it a home from the outside, as it looked very much like a two storey brick, but you and your father had, over the years, made it homely.

“There you are,” you sighed with glee, throwing your arms against the security gate. After the events of today, you wanted your bed. You weren’t stupid enough to believe you would get a good night’s sleep – knowing fine well the murder victim would haunt your nightmares – but your bed was comfortable and warm, and you could finally put your feet up.

Your father let the two of you inside with an assortment of passcodes, and thumb- and retinal-scanners, then when you were in the house with the doors locked behind you, your father told you to get ready for bed and that he would bring you a warm drink soon. You didn’t need telling twice.

Taking the steps two at a time, you hit the second floor then strode over to your room. You flung the door wide, threw your devil-shoes haphazardly towards the window then dived on your bed with a sigh. Reaching for an old, battered and much loved teddy bear, you clutched it in both hands then buried it against your chest.

You stayed there for a while, refusing to move or unzip yourself from your dress. You let the evening’s events wash over you. Honestly, if you never saw Falcone again you still wouldn’t be happy. His world was too… different. No one showed their true colours willingly. It was a lot of second guessing and you had no time for that.

You rolled over, releasing your teddy bear. You thought again, remembering the pat downs at the front door and the bodyguards armed up to the teeth. Even now, you weren’t sure who Falcone was. You had to wonder if he was some mafia boss. Either way, as long as you never met him again you didn’t care. Even Victor, hiding a murderer behind a suave smile, you could do without. He was too much to handle. And why had he shot that man? You couldn’t understand it.

Hoping to dispel some of the violent images, you pulled yourself up, went down the hall to the bathroom, stripped out of your dress and took a warm shower. Even as the water ran over your body and you stared into the drain, you couldn’t help but think back. The man with the semi-exploded face. The sound of the gun going off next to your head.

You lifted your arm, looking at the faint hint of a bruise around your wrist from where Victor had grabbed you and pulled you against him. You couldn’t understand why he had done it. Why stop you from running? Why shoot the man again and again? You had known he was dead the instant you saw him. Adding bullet holes just to make sure he was dead was horrific, and something no normal person should have been able to do.

Then again, if tonight had taught you one thing, it was that neither Falcone nor Victor was normal. Really, they needed to be locked up here, deep inside Arkham.

You shut off the water then dried off with a towel. When you were back in your room, you picked out the comfiest and fluffiest pyjama pants you owned with a matching spaghetti tank top, then set about drying your hair. By the time you were done, your father had appeared with two mugs of tea, each with two sugars. You both needed the extra zing.

Once you were in bed your father passed you your favourite mug then sat by the footboard, holding his mug between both hands. He seemed contemplative for a moment, until you took a sip of tea, then he finally relaxed and smiled.

“Don’t think I could have put you in a bigger mess if I tried.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly but you shook your head to tell him you didn’t mind.

“No one could have predicted that.”

“Well…” your father tapered off. He looked like he wanted to say something more but stayed quiet. Okay, maybe he could have predicted it, but you didn’t hold it against him.

“Did you manage to sort out what you wanted with Mister Falc—sorry. _Don_ Falcone?”

Your father raised an eyebrow. He took a deep swig of his drink and you had to wonder if it was laced with rum, the way he knocked it back.

“I did,” he said finally, setting the empty mug down on your bedroom floor. “I think... I hope, anyway.”

“Will you tell me what you talked about?” You semi-begged, feeling far too caught up in the whole ordeal to be left at the side lines now. As you took another sip of tea, your father placed a warm hand on where your legs were below the covers.

“When the time comes, you’ll know.”

He sounded like some mystic shaman. For such a straight-laced man, he sounded like he was skating around the topic.

“Or you could tell me now and save me waiting?”

Your father chuckled then leaned forward and kissed you on the forehead to say good night.

“Wake me up if anything’s troubling you.”

Then he got up off the bed. He picked up his mug and went for the door, only you stopped him before he left.

“Dad?” You asked, quietly. He stopped and looked at you, his eyes brimming with parental affection.

“What is it?”

You bit your lip, clutching the mug tighter in your grasp as you looked down at your bed sheets.

“That man… tonight. He wanted to know if I was your daughter.” You looked up to see if your father’s expression had changed, but he continued to look at you in both puzzlement and tenderness. “Do you think… you’re safe here? Do you think we should leave Gotham?” To your disappointment, your father chuckled at the suggestion. “You could get a new job somewhere else. I bet you’d be a good teacher.”

Though he heard the pleading in your voice and understood how you felt, your father shook his head.

“If I leave, who will look after the inmates?”

Your father cared too much. He cared for everyone – even the criminally insane. It was his belief that anyone could be redeemed; that everyone had the potential to become good as long as they had someone who believed in them, who was willing to give them the time of day to try. Sometimes you wished he didn’t have that kind nature of his. Sometimes you wished he would just take care of himself.

He came back to perch on the bed next to you. He spotted the teddy bear he had bought for your fifth birthday and gently picked it up, stroking its matted fur with a smile. His gaze drifted back to days gone by, at his little girl sat in the bed beside him. 

“Don’t worry, pumpkin. Everything will be okay.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and you snuggled against him, breathing a deep sigh as you eased into his comforting hug. He handed you the bear as you relaxed, swapping it for your mug so he could set it on your bedside table. “I want you to be safe and happy.” He placed a kiss on the top of your forehead. “I promise you, pumpkin. Gotham is the safest place you could ever be.”

O

The words he said to you that night still echoed through your mind three years later, standing in the rain as you watched four men lower your father’s coffin into the ground. You stood in silence, aware of those who had come to say good bye to your father but unwilling to meet their gaze. You didn’t take your eyes off the coffin, staying with him until he was safely in the earth. The priest read a committal, leading everyone to pray and remember what a brilliant man your father was.

You had lost him three weeks ago. On that night, in the early hours of the morning, you were woken to someone ringing the Warden’s Quarter’s gate buzzer. You had met the GCPD at your doorstep. They told you that night that your father had been killed during a riot inside Arkham. Some of the inmates had stolen his gun, wallet and keys and escaped during the commotion.

You were made to identify the body. No one could have prepared you to see him lying cold on a table with dozens of stab wounds stitched closed across his skin. In that moment your world had come crashing down. Your father. The man who loved you. To die in such a horrible way, in such a painful way. You had wished to have been there with him, to help him, to hold him in his final moments. You hated whoever had hurt him like that. To do it over and over, they must have truly wanted to cause him harm. You swore if they ever found your father’s killer you would be front row at their trial, swearing on the heavens that they suffer both in hell and on earth.

The sky was endlessly cloudy and the rain made the earth sodden and hard to walk in. That was okay, though. You didn’t want to move. You were saying good bye to your father. He had always been and still was your whole world, guiding you through life and its many uncertainties. Even as they began filling in the grave and everyone left one by one, you stayed. You stayed until it was only you and the priest. You stayed until the grave was covered and your father was laid to rest six feet below the earth. Then, finally, when the priest placed a gentle hand on your shoulder and said it was alright to let it out now, having watched you be so strong throughout the service, you finally cried.

Today you said good bye to the one person who had sheltered you from the world’s cruel reality; who had played peek-a-boo with you and given you piggy-back-rides to your room when you were a sleepy child; who had sent you off to school and scolded you for not doing your homework but still came to see if you were alright, bringing a mug of hot chocolate as a truce; who had scared off boys your whole life because no one had been good enough for his pumpkin.

You cried and cried until your eyes stung and your throat hurt. You cried until you couldn’t feel the rain after being numbed by the cold.

Until your cries finally died, the priest kept you company, then he helped you find your footing through the mud and walked you back to the chapel. Once you were under the portico you wiped your eyes and sniffed, thankful that the priest had not left you alone all that time.

“Thank you, Father. The service… it was lovely.”

He smiled with saddened eyes.

“Please stay strong.” He rested a warm hand against your shoulder, now a stark contrast to the cold chill in your bones. “They will find who did this. And may they beg for God’s forgiveness when they do.”

You sniffed again then smiled weakly, trying to accept the priest’s words. He gave a final sigh, hoping that you could see the light in this thicket of darkness, then turned, wished you farewell and went inside the chapel. Then you were alone. You were truly alone.

After the day you lost your father, you had gone through two weeks of feeling empty. Your father’s will was read, leaving his earnings and a lump sum to you, plus all of his belongings. Arkham informed you that they could give you two weeks to find your own place before they brought in the new warden and his family to the Quarters, and that had been another kick to your side. You and your father had lived in the Quarters for fifteen years. Your whole life was within its walls and now you were being cast out, forced to start again with no one else to turn to but your reflection.

The evening after the funeral, you returned to the Quarters for the last time. Tomorrow the moving men were coming, helping you transport what few belongings you had to a new place in downtown Gotham. Your apartment was near to the bars and lounges which made it cheap because of noise, but it was small. It was open plan, save for the bedroom and separate bathroom. You couldn’t take all that you wanted, least of all because much of the furniture was Arkham property. Aside from the furniture you had your clothes, your old teddy bear and the special mug your father always brought to cheer you up.

In a way, it felt like your life amounted to very little. You could pack it in a suitcase and fit it in one small truck.

In the darkness of the Quarters, you moved from room to room, gently touching the walls as you remembered those fond memories of your childhood. The laughs. The tantrums. The staying up late to watch just one more episode together. A lump built in your throat but you finished the final tour, saying good bye to your home.

Saying good bye to him.

oOo

“Okay,” you said aloud, aware no one was around to hear you this late in the evening as you climbed the stairs to your new apartment. “Dad didn’t raise a quitter. Come on. You can do this. You can _doooo_—” you heaved with all your might, lugging your suitcase up the stairs. The elevator was broken. Of course it was. It had worked a few days ago at the viewing, but no, not now that you had to bring heavy baggage up.

Some ways behind you, the moving men were having equal trouble but with much heavier and larger pieces of furniture. But you were sure they had enough man power and didn’t need your help.

Reaching the top step, you fished in your pocket for your key then let yourself in to the apartment. It looked awfully plain inside, but you knew you could make it your own with a lick of paint and some nice pictures dotted about.

Actually, now that you looked at it, it was a fairly large apartment. You may have been seeing it through desperation filters a few days ago, because now it seemed spacious. More than big enough for a single person.

The last owners had left a few bits of unwanted furniture dotted here and there. There was a boombox for music – something you hadn’t had before, a wardrobe, a fridge, a freezer, and a small, circular dining table over by the kitchen worktops. You were grateful to them for leaving you the appliances.

With the movers catching up behind you, you went over to the kitchen area to keep out of their way. You threw the keys onto the dining table, then took a second look when you spotted them landing on a newspaper. It was today’s date, and someone had scribbled all over it.

Before you had chance to look in any depth, the movers appeared and asked you where you wanted the furniture. You got them to set everything down, paid them and gave them a bigger tip for tackling the stairs like beasts, then when they were gone you returned your attention to the newspaper, plopping yourself down on the couch to read through it.

The paper itself wasn’t anything special. You flicked through a few of the articles but nothing much stood out. Murder, gang wars, the same old shtick. It was the back pages that caught your attention – the job adverts. As you noticed before, someone had scribbled all over them. Whoever it was had taken the time to cross out every single advert but for one, and had circled that one and framed it with exclamation marks.

You wouldn’t have minded at all. Except the newspaper was new. Meaning that someone else had been in your apartment today, before you.

And you had the only key.

Creeping yourself out at the thought, you threw the newspaper as an anxious tingle ran up your spine. It tingled all through your body until you had to get up and stomp your foot on the floor to stop it.

There was a logical explanation, you were sure. You couldn’t think of one but you were certain one would come to mind eventually.

_Denial was one of your more favourite coping mechanisms._

It was strange that someone had thought to draw your attention to the job ads, though. You really did need a job. You had paid for your apartment upfront with the money left to you by your father but you knew the pot wouldn’t last forever, and you had to think about bills. And furniture. And advanced security systems.

In the three years after witnessing the murder at Don Falcone’s party you had opened your eyes to the true nature of Gotham. Your father had spent your whole life trying to shield you from it but now that you were alone, you felt better for knowing what horrors you were up against. You had researched Falcone and his crime family, his downfall, and the rise and fall of many other great powers over the last three years. Currently, no one had true control of the city but that meant there was no one to regulate the crimes committed.

Point being, you needed a job if you wanted to protect yourself.

Begrudgingly you picked up the newspaper again and flicked to the jobs section. The circled ad was for a barhand at the Iceberg Lounge. You had heard of the lounge in passing. It belonged to ex-kingpin and ex-mayor of Gotham, Oswald Cobblepot. He was another short-lived stay at the top of the Gotham food chain. For a brief time he had controlled both the over and underworld of the city. With that much power, it was no surprise someone had knocked him off his pedestal.

If he was running a bar you didn’t want to get involved. He had too many enemies and a notoriously short temper. It was safer to stand unarmed in the middle of Arkham’s rec room.

You wondered why someone had thought to circle his ad. Perhaps they wanted you dead. What a fun thought that was for your first day striking out alone.

Squinting to read below the scribbles, you checked the other ads. There was one for Gotham library, another for a florists, a couple of shady-sounding courier jobs, but the vast majority were in the hospitality sector. You liked the idea of working in a café but it didn’t pay much. You had some bar experience so your best bet was working in a club or lounge – just dear God, not Penguin’s.

You spotted an ad for a lounge not far from the apartment. The pay was decent too. You couldn’t hope for better, given your circumstances. They weren’t looking for much experience which gave you hope. Your bar knowledge was limited to the few choice cocktails your father liked, as you had often made them for him after a long shift in the asylum.

Taking the newspaper through to the bedroom, you threw it onto your unmade bed then located your phone amongst the mound of ready-to-be-unpacked clothes in your suitcase. After punching in the lounge’s number, you held the phone to your ear.

One ring. Two ring. Three r—

“_Diamond Lounge,_ _hello_?”

It was a man’s voice. He snapped at you, and with the clattering and clanking in the background, you had to guess you’d caught him at a bad time. You thought about putting the phone down but your need for a steady income was too great.

“Hello, I was calling about your job advert in the paper. My name’s—”

“Are you over eighteen? Do you have a criminal record?”

“I—” Taken aback by his abruptness, you had to pause to think over what he had said. Did he want you to have a criminal record? Did that help? The age thing you could understand. There was no point talking if you weren’t old enough to serve alcohol, but what sorts of shady goings on went on in a place where you needed a record to be hired?

Speaking honestly, you said,

“I’m over eighteen and I don’t have a record. But I can still—”

“No record? Are you sure?” He paused. “You’re rarer than an Inverted Jenny. Let me take your details.”

Having heard that you weren’t a criminal, he sounded more willing to give you his time. You’d had the wrong end of the stick. You were glad the lounge preferred law-abiding citizens. You gave him your details then he told you to pop round to the lounge before opening tomorrow for an informal interview. By the sound of it, it was only for formalities. He sounded eager and desperate.

You put the phone down then fell back against your bed with a grin. That was easy. Then, as if coming back to reality, you noticed the mess you had made trying to find your phone. Since it was your first time living alone, you had a half mind to leave the clutter where it was, as there was no one to tell you off, but you wanted to prove to yourself that you were at least semi-capable of living a respectable adult life.

You rolled off the bed and started unpacking properly. A few minutes in, you decided you didn’t like the eerie quietness of living alone. You unpacked your cassettes and threw one in the boombox, then danced around the apartment to Whitney as you finished the job. Once the clothes were in your new wardrobe, it was a matter of dotting memorabilia around the apartment then making the bed.

Even with the music, something about the apartment felt strange. You couldn’t put your finger on it. It was whenever you looked at the windows – a tingle ran up your spine. It was dark out so there was nothing to see, but maybe that was the problem. Your imagination had room to run riot. You tried to ignore the feeling for the longest time. When you put your toothbrush down in the bathroom, though, and caught yourself staring at the window in the reflection of mirror above the sink, you decided to close all the blinds and curtains.

It helped. For a while. You even managed to finish up and get ready for bed before the feeling of being watched settled back on top of you. There were two windows in your bedroom, both fitted with blinds and blackout curtains to tackle Gotham’s night time light pollution. You thought closing them would help, but now that you were in bed all you could do was imagine someone outside the apartment, lurking and tinkering with the outside of the building.

It was your first night alone. You hadn’t expected this to be easy. You were so used to relying on your father sleeping in a room just down the hall, or having the benefit of the Quarter’s extensive security system. Here you felt… exposed. The worst feeling was being lonely _but not alone_.

After shutting off all the lights, you bolted your bedroom door and got under the covers, gripping them up to your chin. It was stupid of you, but you watched your bedroom curtains. You waited for them to move. You waited for your suspicions to be confirmed. There was someone there, you just knew it.

You waited and waited. You tried to sleep but it wouldn’t come. In the end you slipped out of bed in your comfy pyjamas, put your slippers on then approached the window. You were making this bigger in your head. You were good at creeping yourself out, so opening the curtains would sort it out.

Holding the fabric of the curtains, you took a deep breath to steel yourself, then threw them open.

There was no one there.

In the distance you could see the streets of Gotham, and many of the bars flashed with neon signs to say that they were open, but as far as the balcony of your building was concerned, it was empty.

You breathed a sigh of relief, chuckling at yourself for being so silly. Of course no one was there. You were on the fourth floor for starters. Even junkies coming to light up didn’t climb this high.

You closed the curtains and got back into bed. That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

An hour later and the feeling had sunk on top of you again. Eyes. They were watching you. The quiet noises of the apartment were unfamiliar and kept you awake, making you question what you were hearing.

You thought you heard something in the main room. It sounded like something metal hitting the kitchen countertops. You clutched your bedsheets and shut your eyes. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. There was no one there. You had locked the front door with two separate locks. All the windows were closed. There was no way in.

You stayed quiet, hoping more than anything for sleep to take you so you could ignore your fear that there was someone in the apartment with you. You didn’t have much money to spare, but you were going straight to the hardware store tomorrow to pick up more locks and a burglar alarm.

You heard the same noise again – a metal _clang_. This time, you got out of bed. You didn’t have anything in terms of a weapon so you had to make do with your hairbrush. If you swung hard enough, you could at least stun them long enough to make for the knives in the kitchen.

You slid the bedroom lock open as quietly as you could, wincing when it clicked as the lock deactivated. With one hand on the brush, you twisted the doorknob. This was ridiculous. What a terrible first night you were having. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You pulled the door wide.

You took a step into the main room, clutching both hands around the brush. There was silence. The apartment was empty. You flexed your fingers around the handle, glancing this way and that as you expected someone to jump from the shadows. But they didn’t. You were alone.

You bopped the hairbrush against your head, telling yourself you were an idiot. Of course you were alone.

Even so, you took one of the meat knives off the kitchen counter and took it with you back into your room. If for no other reason than to give you the security to finally fall asleep.

You wanted this to get easier.

For the first time, you actually wanted to feel alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I spooked you out a little with the ending there ;) in the spirit of Halloween and all that~
> 
> I'll be participating in NaNoWriMo this month so you may either get a shit tonne of chapters over the month, or my profile will be dead until December, then you'll get a shit tonne of chapters then (once I've had time to edit)~
> 
> Thank you for all the positive feedback so far <3 it makes me feel like this is worth writing. As always, kudos or comment to let me know what you think.


	3. A Fresh Start

You got the job. Less than twenty-four hours after ringing the Diamond Lounge you sat through a very quick interview then signed your contract.

“You’ll start at the end of the week,” your new boss, Luca, said with a smile, opening the lounge’s main door to let you out. “White blouse, black skirt, black tights. Just keep yourself neat and tidy and we’ll see how you do on your first day.”

You thanked him over and over again. The two of you were as pleased as each other that you had been hired. You were both desperate – him for staff, and you for a job. There was a mutual understanding that you needed time to get up to standard as a barkeep, but he was more than willing to give it you. He was just happy to find someone without a bounty on their head to serve the drinks.

“See you at the end of the week.” You said with a happy grin. The older man smiled and nodded.

“You’ve got my number. Contact me if you have any more questions.”

Back on the main street, you mentally high-fived yourself. For being in the centre of Gotham, the Diamond Lounge was a small place with a small clientele. It was a great spot for a first-timer like you. Luca turned out to be a nice man too, if not a little rushed off his feet and losing hair over it. You felt a lot better about the job after meeting him.

On the way home, you decided to stop by the hardware store. You were tired after last night’s rough sleep and wanted every bit of help drifting off tonight. An extra lock on the front door and child locks on the windows would help. Maybe you would finally shake off that feeling of being watched, too.

After the hardware store you went in search of the local supermarket. With the sun still up, you felt safe enough to wander freely. There was no food in the apartment and you were starting to get hungry. Your stomach wanted you to order takeout and be done with it, but you were still trying to prove that you could make it on your own. You would at least wait until the cupboards were stocked before opting for a Chinese.

By the time you left the supermarket, which fortunately sat only a few streets over from your apartment block, it was apparent that you had never had to shop for yourself before. While most would have considered buying fresh fruit and veg, your shopping bags were full of wine, frozen pizzas and tins of all-day breakfast. You were going to learn about nutritional deficiency the hard way.

As you headed home, jostling the bags to keep them from slipping from your grip, you congratulated yourself on a very productive second day striking out alone. Not everyone could say they had found a job so quickly. It did make you wonder, though, about that newspaper that had been left on the kitchen counter. Who had left it there with Cobblepot’s place highlighted, clearly meant for you to find? You supposed it didn’t matter all that much. Not now that you were armed with an arsenal of locks. You just wished you didn’t have the mental image of someone breaking into your apartment to leave a job ad for you, if that’s what had happened.

You shuddered, turning down the alley that led to your street. The sooner you had the security set up around your apartment, the better. Then you would crack open a bottle of wine to celebrate.

As you walked through the dimly lit alley, a sound caught your attention. It came from behind you, like someone clearing their throat but trying to do it discreetly. You thought you must have imagined it but when you slowed your pace for just a second, you heard a footstep that would have been perfectly in time with yours. You looked over your shoulder. There was a man behind you. He was a short distance away and when you looked at him, he stopped dead.

Something felt off.

You set off walking again, reasoning that if he followed you any further, you could head back towards the Diamond Lounge so he wouldn’t find out where you lived. You had bottles of wine to use as clubs if he got any closer too.

However, once you were in the deepest part of the alley, another figure appeared ahead of you. You had to assume he was a man because grizzly bears didn’t usually wear clothes, nor did they carry baseball bats.

Though the air was warm, a cold chill ran through you. You gripped your shopping bags, wondering if it was too late to turn around. You pushed on, hoping upon hope as you put your head down that this was all coincidence. Your keys were buried too deep in your handbag for you to arm yourself discreetly.

You picked up your pace, turning your head away as you tried to scurry past the hulking, grizzly man.

But he went for you. He must have put his whole bodyweight behind his shoulder because you went flying into the alley wall, so much so that it made you wheeze. You dropped your shopping on collision then heard the glass bottles smash against the pavement.

It was a blur. As you tried to figure out what had just happened, feeling pain in your back and shoulders from the impact, the grizzly man grabbed you, pulling you from the wall. Then you felt a tug on your arm. The other man – the shorter one – was yanking your handbag away from you.

“S-stop!” You demanded, to little effect. You tried to keep a grip on your belongings but with almost no effort the grizzly man pushed you off-balance then grappled you to the floor while the other man ran off with your handbag.

“Bring that back!” You cried after him in desperation, caring less about your phone and purse and more about your only set of apartment keys, only the man on top of you struck you across the face with a heavy hand. He held nothing back. Heat seared your right cheek as the pain made your eyes water but you fell silent all the same.

“Tell me your PIN-code and maybe I won’t paint the floor with the inside of your head.”

As he brandished the bat, tapping it over his shoulder, you let out a terrified squeak. He wasn’t messing around. It didn’t matter that you were a woman, half his size or totally unarmed. He was going to hurt you if you didn’t do as you were told.

“I—I—” In the face of such danger, you couldn’t remember your own name, let alone your card’s PIN-code. You looked into the man’s eyes, helplessly wracking your brains for the numbers while you worried how long his patience would last.

It wasn’t very long at all.

“This should help you remember quicker.”

He swung the bat up. You shrieked and shielded your face but on the downswing there was a sudden pop, like a car engine backfiring. Something splattered against the backs of your hands then the bat smacked you, but with little to no force behind it before it clattered to the floor. You heard a second pop and looked up just in time to have the grizzly man fall lifeless on top of you. He was heavy but what was worse was how much he bled onto you.

You whimpered, trying to heave him off you with all your strength. In the end you rolled out from beneath him, getting up and staggering back until you were pressed against the alley wall, your eyes blown wide.

What the hell was going on?

You looked at your hands. Red. So much red. There was a bullet hole through the back of the man’s skull. You were instantly sent back to that night three years ago at Falcone’s party. A memory that had haunted you – those lifeless eyes and the mangled face.

You pushed your hands against your lips, forcing yourself not to scream like you wanted to. You looked along the alley. The other man was face down on the pavement, still clutching your bag.

You felt sick. You felt wired. You looked around, hoping to spot the attacker. You didn’t know if it was safe to move. Would you be a target if you stepped out? You kept looking at the lifeless body in front of you even when you willed yourself not to, wanting nothing more than to flee.

You stayed where you were for some time. You stayed pinned against the wall, breathing shallowly as you waited for a sign that someone else was there. Then, eventually, you started to calm down. You eased your breathing, pulling away from the wall as you looked up to the skyline. You were certain that’s where the gunshots had come from. But there was no one there.

At least, not any more.

That night, after fixing the locks to your doors and windows – because nothing took precedence over that, not even when you were covered in someone else’s blood – you salvaged the one bottle of wine that had not broken during the scuffle, downed half of it then took yourself into the bathroom. You got into the shower, still fully clothed, and switched the water on.

It took you a long time to start moving. A fear had slipped beneath your skin, even more so than before. This world was different from the one your father had raised you to know. You wondered if he had been right to shield you. Had he realised how defenceless it would leave you once he was gone? You watched the man’s blood mix with the water at your feet then swirl away down the drain.

Reaching for the wash cloth, you peeled away your clothes, leaving them in a wet pile in the base of the shower then scrubbed yourself until you were clean. Then you kept scrubbing. You scrubbed until the blood was gone and your skin was raw so you couldn’t remember the feeling of the mugger’s blood splashing against the backs of your hands, or how his dead body crumpled on top of you.

Once you were out and dry, with your wet clothes thrown in the washing machine, you drank the other half of the bottle of wine then put yourself to bed, having long forgotten about your hunger. It was not a peaceful sleep. Your nightmares forced you to imagine what could have happened in that alleyway – all the violent possibilities, had a mysterious third party not intervened. Those images were spliced with the memories of that night at Falcone’s, another dead body with a bullet through his head. You sobbed in your sleep, even going so far as to dream of what might have happened to your father on the night he died; of the inmates rioting and destroying everything in their path.

The next morning your eyes were sore from crying but you had managed to make up your mind. Dead bodies were piling up in front of you. These were not dreams. They were facts. Gotham was showing you its hand; its violence and everything it had in store for someone like you who intended to call it home.

You were afraid but you did not want to back down. Your father hadn’t raised a quitter. No matter what happened, you still had your life and you still wanted to see the day they brought your father’s killer to justice. Until then, you would not let Gotham frighten you.

oOo

You spent the week before your job began looking into the riots that fateful night at Arkham. You didn’t have a computer at your place because they were expensive to run, so you made Gotham’s library your second home. The GCPD had finally released the names of the escapees, having been unable to catch them so far, so most of your time was spent looking into each of the escapees backgrounds to determine who the likely killer was.

Your money was on a man named Robert Jones, who was sent to Arkham after murdering a bus of pensioners under the belief a frog in his stomach had forced him to do so. A paranoid schizophrenic, he had also been denied early release after causing violent fights with the other inmates. Of all the escapees, he seemed the most unstable. You couldn’t rule anyone out, of course. But if you happened to see Mister Jones walking down the street you were going to scream murderer and hope someone tackled him.

Even when you were in the library, the hairs on the back of your neck sometimes prickled as if there were eyes on you. When you looked, though, there was no one there. You made sure to research a few quick self-defence techniques, just in case. If one of the escapees was following you, you doubted they would hide in the shadows and wait for the opportune moment, but it didn’t hurt to arm yourself.

When it finally came to the evening of your first shift, you were just happy to be somewhere where no one could get in without bouncers frisking them first. It made for a pleasant change, and it was the first place you felt genuinely safe. It helped that the Diamond Lounge’s owner, Luca, was a 6 foot 3 bodybuilder type who didn’t take shit from patrons.

“We’ll start you off in the back tonight,” he said, welcoming you into the lounge a few hours before customers were due to show up. “You’ve got some admin to get through, then I’ll hand you over to Paul who will give you a crash course in cocktails. Sound okay so far?”

“Absolutely.” You were just happy he didn’t plan to throw you in at the deep end. It was a Saturday night. You had dreaded trying to serve five customers at once, all of whom wanted different fancy cocktails.

“If it looks like you’re doing okay, and once you’ve helped me with stocktake, for the last hour of the bar you can try serving some customers. By that point it should only be the regulars. It’ll be quiet. Don’t look so nervous.”

“Sorry.” You said lamely, unaware your expression had slipped at the thought of serving tonight. You were meant to be a barhand, after all. You just hoped he was right and that it would be quiet once you got out there.

oOo

The first half of your shift was easy. You sat and read policies then you were taught how to make some pretty basic cocktails by the bar manager, Paul. He taught you the different methods for blending ingredients. It seemed pretty straight forward. You were thankful for all those evenings making your father drinks after work because nothing seemed harder than they had been.

Then Luca took you into the stock room and the pair of you listed and counted bottles of booze, mixers and bar snacks. While you worked, he offered you some advice for when you were on the bar.

“I know this is probably common sense but we get all types of customers. If you want to go far, I suggest you don’t repeat anything you overhear from them. The Diamond Lounge’s policy is to serve drinks with a smile and forget what you heard. And that _includes_,” he said pointedly, “if the customers get drunk and talk to you personally. We’ve got a lot of regulars who tend to open their traps once they’re drunk. They trust us not to mention anything, and sometimes they need to vent. Makes for good business. Just keep serving them the drinks, don’t ask too many questions, and never tell anyone else what was said. Got it?”

Though a lump sat heavily in your stomach at this information, you nodded and did not let the nerves slip onto your face.

“Got it.”

It wasn’t the fear of what Luca would do, but the fear of what the customers would do if they found out you had repeated something you shouldn’t have. You suspected the clientele was made up of shady types. You only hoped they were more like shady businessmen and not shady murderers.

After hours of work, it was finally time to start serving. Luca gave you a black apron, your name badge and reassured you that everything would be fine. He realised he had freaked you out with his pep-talk. He was so used to managing shady staff that he forgot that a non-criminal member of the team could get intimidated. As a way to calm you down, he told you that Paul would be on the bar with you all night and to go to him should anything come up.

It actually helped calm your nerves a lot. Paul was a tall, thin man but looked like the type who could sneak up behind you and knock you out cold with a pressure-point. If he was on your side, you were more than happy to go up against whatever the customers threw at you. It helped that he was actually pretty charming, even though you were almost certain he was convicted of something or other.

“Give ‘em hell.”

Those were the last words Luca gave you before you stepped out onto the bar. You were confident. You were ready. Paul nodded in greeting then turned back to the woman he was serving. You took a deep breath. Then you looked for someone who needed a drink.

And that’s when you saw him. Not a customer in need but the man who had first shown you the gates of hell those three long years ago. Of all the people in Gotham, in the _world_, it could have been, it was Victor Zsasz sat at the bar looking bored and without a drink to keep him company. He was just as handsome as you remembered, possibly even more so, with that same designer suit and those dark eyes that were too easy to get lost in. He hadn’t spotted you yet. You had a half-mind to nip in the back until Paul had served him but you knew it would make a terrible first impression with your co-workers.

The fact of the matter was that Victor was a killer. He made you nervous. It didn’t matter that he no longer worked for Falcone, who was long into retirement, because people like Victor Zsasz could always find work in Gotham.

Luca’s words echoed through your ears. Service with a smile, and forget everything else. You needed this job. It seemed like the world was poking fun at you, presenting Victor as your first customer, but you supposed he wouldn’t be the only surprise you got, working here. You had a job to do, and a new boss to impress. Victor might have flipped your world upside down three years ago but you would be damned if he messed up your life from here on out.

With a newfound determination, you set yourself up in front of Victor, picked up a martini glass and asked with the confidence of someone who had worked on the bar all her life,

“What’ll it be, Mister Zsasz?”

When he heard your voice and finally looked up, you didn’t expect to see such alarm in his eyes. By the time you had blinked, though, that alarm was nowhere to be found. His dark eyes drank you in, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

You hated that your knees went weak the moment he spoke.

“Fancy seeing you here, kitten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos or comment to let me know what you think. There'll be plenty of our boy Zsaszzypants from here on out. Plus a certain redheaded jokester~!


	4. The Diamond Lounge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and reviews. After what seems like an eternity, here's the next instalment. I hope you enjoy, and feel free to leave me a message or a kudos if you do! I'd really appreciate it~

“I’m surprised you remember me.” You admitted, doing your very best not to look directly into Victor’s eyes. His deep voice already had your knees trembling and you didn’t want him making you any more of a mess. No matter how you tried, you couldn’t hate the guy.

“It’s hard to forget the girl who swooned when I shot a man.”

“_Wha_—” his words took you aback. “It wasn’t like that.” You insisted, looking along the bar to make sure no one else had heard him. “I fainted.”

“From desire.”

“From _fear_.”

Victor flashed you a mischievous grin.

“Are you always this easy to rile up, kitten?”

You tried to hide your embarrassment from being caught up in his web. You knew how much of a sweet-talker he was from the last time you had met. But you still had a job to do. With a coquettish smile you diverted the topic, hoping to serve him and move on quickly.

“So what’ll it be?”

Victor gave a long sigh, staring at you with his eyebrows knitted closely together. Then he relaxed and leaned forwards, motioning you to do the same. Against your better judgement you humoured him, leaning over the counter, then when you were close enough to smell the hints of leather and jasmine in his cologne, he asked in an all too serious, dangerous tone,

“Give me a slow, comfortable screw against the wall.”

“S-sorry?” you all-but squeaked, pulling back in alarm. It was only when Victor gave you another smile that you realised he was teasing you.

Paul spotted your distress and sauntered down the bar, a wet glass and rag in his hands.

“Go easy on her, Zsasz. It’s her first night.”

Victor was a regular here, then. Were you happy to hear that, or disappointed? You weren’t sure. He gave you mixed feelings and had done so for the past three years. You would be lying to say you hadn’t had the odd late night fantasy about him, being one of the only men brave enough to lay a hand on you while your father was still around. But still. You didn’t fancy him drunk-venting to you about his job one night, like Luca had warned you some of the customers did.

With Paul beside you, backing you up, Victor raised his hands to admit his guilt then flashed you a grin.

“Vodka, Southern Comfort, Sloe Gin, Galliano, orange juice. A Slow Comfortable Screw against the Wall. Why, what did you think I meant?”

Paul chuckled, seeing you in no real danger, then walked back to the wash station while you fought a rather sharp blush. Seeing as how he didn’t plan to be professional, you waited until Paul was out of earshot then hissed,

“You’re enjoying this.”

Victor tipped an imaginary hat towards you.

“I’m a man of simple pleasures.”

You tutted, more annoyed at yourself than at him for getting drawn in and dare say enjoying his teasing. You wandered off down the bar, collecting the ingredients for Victor’s drink, but when you went to grab a highball glass, Paul sniped it and held it out of reach.

“You know Mister Zsasz, I assume?” He asked, a single eyebrow raised in surprise. You frowned. You didn’t exactly know him. In fact you knew nothing about him at all, but that wasn’t what Paul was getting at.

“We met… once.”

“Oh? A one night fling, was it?”

“No.”

“You sure? Because he hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked away.”

You nearly looked behind you to check but caught yourself at the last second, noting the way Paul pursed his lips at your reaction. You shook your head.

“Don’t joke about that.”

“Wish I was.” He handed you the glass. “Be careful. If you’ve met him, you know what he does for a living. Best not to get involved.”

You wished you could forget. It wasn’t like you were seeking him out. In fact, you had managed a solid three year stint without stumbling into him. You wanted to ignore him but if he was a customer there was very little you could do.

Perhaps you could use this opportunity in your favour. If you couldn’t avoid him, maybe you could use him instead. With a job like Victor’s, he probably had ears all over the city. If there was anyone who might know the whereabouts of Robert Jones or the other Arkham escapees, it was your new bald-headed, dark eyed regular.

“One Slow Comfortable Screw against the Wall.” You said, setting the drink down in front of Victor. His expression had gone back to looking bored but he took the drink in a gloved hand, raising it to his lips.

“Thanks.”

He took a long sip. You couldn’t help but notice the way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he gulped. Catching yourself staring, you swore gently then cleared your throat and raised your eyebrows as if to ask Victor what he thought of the drink.

He set it down, being meticulous to avoid the glass clinking on the countertop. It was such a careful action that you found yourself watching with interest. You only looked away when you realised he was observing you with equal curiosity.

“Not bad for a first time. Makes me wonder what your Orgasms would taste like.”

There was that grin of his, like a devil sent from hell to torment you. You refused to let him get a rise from you this time. There were no more customers at the bar so you grabbed a glass-carrier then headed out into the room so you wouldn’t have to look at his face.

This late at night, there were only a handful of customers left in the lounge, with most having gone off to the louder clubs to end their alcohol-fuelled binges. Those that were left looked rather more tired and business-like, and kept themselves to themselves in no more than groups of two or three. You flittered between the empty tables first, collecting up glasses, then dared to venture towards the occupied booths to clear away what you could.

“Thanks, darl’.” An old man offered you his empty glass, then three more that were left on his table. You thanked him then before you left he added, “Don’t let Paul bully you out of tips.” He bellowed louder, making sure Paul could hear him from the bar. “He’s a sneaky bastard, that one, our Paul.”

When Paul looked up, he saw the geezer and flashed him a grin. The old man chuckled, correcting himself for your benefit.

“Don’t mind me. He’s a good’un really. Won’t steer you wrong.”

You smiled, enjoying the man’s playful humour, then carried on to the next booth. There were two men in this one, surrounded by a collection of glasses that should have been picked up a while ago. Unlike the rest of the room, they were still rambunctious enough to call you out when you approached.

“Oh-ay, Sweetheart. Aren’t you a looker? This your first day?”

The two laughed, one digging the other in the ribs while you smiled awkwardly and loaded the glasses into the carrier. You didn’t want to reply, but they seemed like the type who would push it if you kept quiet.

“It is.”

“_It is_,” one of them mocked in a high voice. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, I’ll give you that. It’s a sausage fest in here.”

And you understood why. They reminded you of the men who had attended Falcone’s birthday party – over-entitled mobsters who saw women as nothing more than trophies and bragging pieces. You couldn’t imagine any respectable female wanting to hang around with guys like them.

“Could you pass me your empties, please?”

You felt like they were purposefully hording the glasses on the far side of the booth, where you could not reach them.

“Sure, sure.” The drunker of the two said. He swept most of the glasses across the table with an arm to where you could reach, but kept a couple back. “If you want these you’ll have to come and get them.”

They could keep them, then. The carrier was nearly full anyway.

You turned and headed back towards the bar, only you felt one of the men grab a handful of your ass, then the two started laughing. A jolt of shock ran up your spine. You stopped dead, but as you turned to tell them off, to demand to know what they were doing and why they thought it was alright to grope you, drunk or not, you stopped yourself. You couldn’t. This was your first shift. You weren’t sure you could get away with causing a scene. The two men seemed like they had cash to spare – they might even be regulars. It hurt your pride but you stayed quiet and walked away. You needed this job. It wouldn’t do well to rock the boat.

When you returned to the bar, you noticed that Victor was gone. His glass was empty and there was a ten dollar bill poking out from beneath it. Good, you thought. At least something had gone your way while you were glass-collecting. You didn’t want to see his face after have your butt grabbed by a middle-aged creep. You had to admit though, Victor must have downed his drink. You hadn't been gone that long.

The rest of the night passed by without incident. Slowly but surely the customers finished their drinks, paid their tabs then stumbled out the front door. You served everyone with a smile until it was only you, Paul and Luca left inside the Diamond Lounge, wiping down the bar and tables or cleaning the last of the glasses.

Your shift ended at 2AM. When you were done you collected your belongings from the staffroom lockers then met Luca at the back door while he closed up. You wanted to tell him about the groper. It didn’t sit well with you that it had happened. You were worried it could happen again or even be a regular occurrence if you kept quiet. This was totally new territory for you. You didn’t usually keep the company of letches. You wanted to believe your boss had your back should it happen again.

Only, as you opened your mouth to say something, Luca turned to you with a warm smile, fishing in the pocket of his over-sized trench coat.

“Great job tonight. You’re an absolute natural.” He reached out to shake your hand. You looked at the gesture, the joy on his face, and felt the fight drain out of you. You didn’t want to be a bother. You took his hand but felt him slip something into yours amidst the shake. When you looked, you saw he had given you a ten dollar bill.

“What’s this?” You asked. His smile broadened.

“A tip. Paul said a customer left it for you. Keep up the good work.”

You looked at the money. Your mind drifted back to the ten dollar bill poking out from under Victor’s drink earlier in the evening. Had that been from him? If it was, you had to wonder why. Did Victor think you were a charity case or something?

Even so, you were thankful for the extra bit of cash. You were going to be getting your wages monthly. Anything to tide you over to that first payday.

You looked at Luca again, still wanting to mention the groper. But he looked so happy. He genuinely seemed pleased with you, like you were a breath of fresh air and someone he wanted to depend on in the future. You felt the words clog in your throat. You wanted to tell him, you really did. But you swallowed them and put the money in your pocket.

“Thank you.” You said. “I won’t let you down.”

O

You took a taxi back to your apartment. The Diamond Lounge was only a ten minute walk away from your place but it was late and you didn’t want to take any chances when muggers were willing to attack you in broad daylight.

Once you were home you locked your front door in three separate places, jiggling it to be sure, then sighed and dropped your bag and coat haphazardly onto the floor. It was a bittersweet feeling. You liked your new job. It had plenty of perks and both Luca and Paul seemed nice. Most of the customers were lovely too. But… had that groping really been a one-time thing? You touched your hand to where the man had squeezed you, feeling an uncomfortable tingle run up your spine at the memory. If they hadn’t looked so much like mobsters then maybe you would have had the courage to defend yourself, or at least tell Luca. But the fear that they were powerful, influential and eager to have their own way had been enough to make you hold your tongue. And you hated yourself for it.

Gotham really was the worst.

You managed to fall asleep at 3AM, winding yourself down by listening to music that also drowned out the creepy noises your apartment made at night. It was a peaceful sleep. The shift had knocked it out of you. However, you woke again around 4:30AM in need of a drink.

Feeling groggy, you slipped out of bed in your pyjama top and shorts, grabbing your empty glass off the nightstand then went into the main room. You knew your way around the apartment enough not to have to use the lights, saving your eyes from an unnecessary blinding. You shuffled over to the kitchen area then filled your glass in the sink, yawning as you tried desperately to hold onto your sleepiness.

Only, something strange caught your ear. When you shut the tap off, you heard a low humming sound. You looked over to the oven and saw, although the light inside it was not lit, that it was on. You frowned, feeling some of your drowsiness slipping away while you tried to remember if you had turned it on before going to bed.

When you were certain you hadn’t, you set the glass down on the counter then made your way over to the front door so you could turn the lights on. The door was locked. You had checked the windows. You knew you were alone. But you just couldn’t shake the feeling something was off.

With your finger on the switch, you felt the nerves build inside you the longer you hesitated. You knew you were being silly. Your imagination was playing tricks on you because you were tired and stressed-out from work.

Your finger still trembled as you pressed the light switch.

Then you saw him.

Victor Zsasz was in the kitchen, watching you.


End file.
